He had gone to the very
depths of that which was sacred to herself and those whom she
loved.
He rose and stirred the fire, and stray ends of birch leaped into
flame, lighting his pale face. He wanted to go to the tent, kneel
there where Jeanne could hear him, and tell her that it was all a
mistake. Yet he knew that this could not be, neither the next day
nor the next, for to plead extenuation for himself would be to
reveal his love. Two or three times he had been on the point of
revealing that love. Only now, after what had happened, did it
occur to him that to disclose his heart to Jeanne would be the
greatest crime he could commit. She was alone with him in the
heart of a wilderness, dependent upon him, upon his honor. He
shivered when he thought how narrow had been his escape, how short
a time he had known her, and how in that brief spell he had given
himself up to an almost insane hope. To him Jeanne was not a
stranger. She was the embodiment, in flesh and blood, of the
spirit which had been his companion for so long. He loved her more
than ever now, for Jeanne the lost child of the snows was more the
earthly revelation of his beloved spirit than Jeanne the sister of
Pierre.
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